The Long Siege - Chapter 1

A fragrance crosses my nose, slight, fresh, and expensive. The kind that reminds me of Brooke, who wears a sweater touch.

I turn sideways and step back, giving way for a couple of ladies to pass through the sliding door of Saigon International Convention Center. The younger one is reading through a brochure with deep focus, and her mother is aware enough of the small gallantry I’ve just offered and thanks me with a nod. I return with a convenient smile and quickly check myself out using the sliding door reflection.

I don’t look the part of a standard student, but more like a maintenance guy with style. I always dress with boots, black cargo pants, a blazer, and a white t-shirt underneath. I nod at another pair of passersby as I confirm my ten minutes early arrival, exactly how I liked it. It’s not an easy thing to achieve with the current traffic, but I have managed to achieve a lot more than just being punctual. The police believe I’m innocent. I groom my hair again, a simple under cut with slightly long strand that elevated my wavy hair pattern, then wipe my face clean with wet tissue. Harry, you’ve got this.

The cloud gives way to the rare sunlight of this stormy season as I walk into the hall, into the chaotic mix of sound that disorients my new found peace. The percussive click of heels on polished granite, the low hum of a thousand simultaneous conversations, the laughs of students on their imagined future, the echoes of promotion across the booths of universities across the world—all blend into a perfect chaotic cadence.

I navigate through the torrent of movements like a leaf riding the wind to the NLU section. In my steps, I can’t help but smile at parents clutching folders of transcripts while their children’s eyes wide with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. I don’t smile because I’m happy for them, nor envy them for having loving parents, I have passed that phase long ago. My smile is for my own entertainment. Seeds never know what harsh weather awaits for them. I also smile because I know it is a bad metaphor. The better one shall be the little birds leaving the mother’s nest, but I’m a botanical researcher, so seeds are my choice.

As I pass several pillars and into a corner, professor Schmidt has just finished his speech on the dais. We cross our eyes and walk into the NLU booth. “You look even better in person, Harry.” The professor offers a handshake.

I take it firmly with a smile crest on my lip. “As do you, Professor Smith.” Shit, I mispronounced his name. But I maintain straight eye contact.

The professor wears kempt hair and a full beard that has turned partly gray. His dark hazel eyes show no sign of offence, just returning the stare with amusement, much like my own. “Schmidt,” he corrects softly.

“Schmidt,” I repeat rightly this time. “Should we go to a quieter area for a coffee?”

The professor reaches for my elbow, his grip is strong and purposeful, something I don’t accustomed to. “Thanks for the invite but I’m on a tight schedule.” He speaks even softer after, almost like a whisper. “We’re looking forward to your arrival in Missouri.”

That takes me by surprise. He is supposed to interview me before confirming it. But before I can speak, Schmidt taps my hand. “We can’t let you slip to Huntington Botanical Gardens. Your theory and research on the DNA helix has over seventy percent success.”

I slightly tilt my head up. “Then I should bargain about my scholarship, and my share if this seed goes commercial.” Then I smile again, making it blur between a joke and a serious deal.

Schmidt smiles back and nods. “That’s the spirit,” after two seconds, he continues, “Your English is sufficient, say six-months in, you become my lecture’s assistant. Then, you can refer my name in your CV.”

“I’ll work for you and the institution forever,” I say, trying to remain calm at the hideous deal, “why would I need your name in my CV? Why would I even need a CV?” A little flattery won’t hurt anyone, and it’s fine to play naïve to make them off-balance.

Schmidt’s smile widens, revealing his perfect white porcelain teeth. “That attitude seals our deal, Harry. You have surpassed our expectations.”

“Professor Schmidt,” I say firmly, a harsh switch in my tone. It’s time for the real deal. I reach for his elbow, returning the firm grip. Then I reach into my blazer pocket and produce a small, clear vial. Inside, a single seed rests on a bed of cotton. “Your lab must have already formulated this seed using my helix.”

Professor Schmidt’s polite smile tightens almost imperceptibly.

“It didn’t sprout, did it? A problem with the trigger for the height limitation gene,” I say confidently. Then I drop my voice even lower despite the noise. “I’ve worked it out and more. People will have to buy our soil to nurture this seed, like fertilizer.” I cover my mouth, pretending that I’m scratching an itch. “I want two percent.”

The professor is no longer smiling. He studies me with a new, intense focus. The hum of the convention center seems to fade around us. “One. And you walk in as my lead researcher on the project. Not an assistant.”

A present tense, a fact, he’s confirmed. “Then my ship will anchor in Missouri’s bilgewater,” I say.

We shake hands again and I feel a new, profound respect in the professor’s grip. Schmidt disappears into the crowd, and I’m left alone, the vial returns to my pocket like an unclaimed bingo.

I sigh victoriously and can’t help but smile while facing the white wall of the convention center. Years of hard work have finally paid off. Somewhere outside, a siren howls, pretty normal in this deep raining season when wet roads just leave traffic unbearable. A fragrance crosses my nose, slight, fresh, and expensive—the kind that reminds me of Brooke, who wears a sweater touch.

“I know you,” a girl’s voice, soft and mature, rings up behind my back. “Harry Nguyen.” She announces my name before seeing my tag.

“I believe I have not had the pleasure of knowing you, Miss…” She has chestnut hair that falls over her shoulders. Her skin has the healthy glow of an athlete or a doctor, and her eyes, behind dark gray colored lenses, are assessing me with intense focus. It isn’t the romantic kind, more like the act of reading a book.

“Elise Truong.” She offers a handshake and I take it absentmindedly. “I need your help.”

Her hands are rough. Boxing? Cyclist? She wears sport shoes with jeans, and also a blazer on top of a t-shirt. Then my eyes meet hers again, and her dimple is so unfair when she slightly smiles. “Please continue pitching your proposal.” I manage to not stutter against her dazzling appearance.

“It’s about my Ph.D thesis.” She takes her hand back and opens the folder. Then she sidesteps so we are facing the same direction. The Modern Alchemy: Distilling the Core Traits of Post-Traumatic Growth in the Extraordinary Case of___. “Your name here if you agree,” she says with her finger stopping at the blank dash.

Her fragrance is clearer and it’s the type I like. A little flowery, a little woody, and a little spice underneath, all combine into a slight aroma like a breeze of spring. “I’m flattered but no. I don’t want my name in any document.” I again, know that I have spoken in a wrong tone, but I have the very reason to. My last girlfriend passed away just two months ago, and as usual, the boyfriend was the primary suspect. The case is closed now and the cause of death is officially announced suicide by overdosed, but I’m not inclined to let people poking at a healing wound.

“A star student then.” Elise snaps her finger and it really pops amidst the noise. “I’ve done my research about you so I’m offering nine hundred dollars for three interviews.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse.” I step further away from her. Nine hundred dollars. That would cover shipping for my bike, or my first month’s rent in Missouri. The number hangs in the air, tempting me to take it. The proverb says Saigon never sleeps because your money is never enough. The grind never ends to afford a city life. I guess it also applies to every big city like New York, or L.A.

Elise’s face beams up as if she has just understood what’s wrong in her phrasing, or perhaps she just read my reaction. “Oh. It’s not about your recent unfortunate events.” She turns sideways again, realigning us to the same direction while flipping her files. “Here. It’s about overcoming hardship and focusing on the future.”

As long as it’s not about Brooke, I think while tracing her thesis. I’ve every reason to suspect she’s a reporter digging up a hole to launch her career, but nine hundred for three hours is not something that comes to you often.

The findings from this extraordinary case study suggest that therapeutic interventions for complex trauma could be enhanced by consciously fostering these core traits.

Practice Strategic Narrative Reconstruction through guided autobiography exercises.

Develop Goal-Oriented Future Casting by building detailed ‘life maps’ of their desired future.

Strengthen Instrumental Relational Bonding by identifying and building a ‘board of directors’

for their personal growth.

Learn techniques for Cognitive-Emotional Decoupling to manage emotional flooding during triggers.

“Impressive work, Ms.Truong,” I say blandly. This lovely lady seems legit because I peek into her bag while pretending that I read slowly. Style and colored pens, sticker notes, a recorder, pepper spray, and a lips moisturizer. “This is picking up work before it arrives given our social issues.”

I signal her to walk with me. We navigate through the crowd again, and while I’m reading, she takes the lead naturally, steering our path towards the lounge room. She stops and buys us coffee, and I catch our reflection in a mirror. We look good together in the glass, our combination of sharp practicality. Old aunties will say we have the couple features. The thought is dangerous, like a weed sprouting in carefully curated soil. I sigh, thinking about how good I and Brooke look together and how it ends. The thesis, I shall stay focused. She’s older than me and already captured too much of my attention.

Area to cover:

Strategic Narrative Reconstruction. Don’t be the author of your past. Be the editor of your future. Rewrite your story with purpose.

Goal-Oriented Future Casting. Anchor your soul not in the storm you weathered, but in the lighthouse you are building.

Instrumental Relational Bonding. Your network is your net worth. Forge bonds not just for companionship, but for construction.

Cognitive-Emotional Decoupling. In the hurricane of circumstance, build an eye of calm. Let your logic be the architect, not your fear.

“Why me though?” I ask as we sit comfortably on the sofa of the lounge. The noise has faded away behind the wall and all that’s left is the buzzing of the air conditioner.

“You know why I chose you, Harry. What you have achieved given your predicament is the goldmine for me.” She smiles. “So… extra cash before you go abroad?”

I slightly frown. “How do you know?” Since Brooke, it doesn’t bode well to me when someone stalks my back. Is she working for the police?

“You’re beaming when the professor tapped your elbow. Must be good news and you slightly clenched your fist in triumph.”

“That’s detective work, not therapist work, Ms. Truong.” I push out a smile, making it a blur between a joke and a serious statement. So she’s been stalking me for a long time here? I dismiss the idea. Her thesis looks legit and I am not delusional to think she’s following me because she has a crush or something. It must be her work.

“Call me Elise,” she sips her coffee, slowly, and averts her gaze to the vase behind the sofa.

I instinctively mimic her gesture and sips mine. “Oh, half sugar, no milk. You did your homework?” My favorite is full sugar, sometimes double, but I say what I say. I’m entitled to play games with a stranger.

She smirks, neither confirming nor dismissing my probing hint. “You know the professions have similar traits, just different areas to look at. They look at objects for clues, I look at the person to understand their motive.” She leans over, keeping a very deep eye contact while deepening her voice. “Their past, their habits, their expressions, sometimes their darkest, deepest desires.”

I can’t help but break eye contact and scoff out a laugh. “Did you just do a Lucifer imitation, Ms. Lucy?”

She also laughs and I can see her shoulders move. “Yeah, I just finished the show and you know what. He become a therapist in hell.” She shifts her posture, leaning back with her arms on the armbar.

“Really?” I scratch my upper lip while lowering my gaze. I can’t look at her eyes anymore. “I guess it’s a fitting conclusion. He’s healing the damned soul instead of torturing them. That’s real character arc.”

She snaps her finger again. “You could role play Lucifer starter pack, while I do the psychiatrist doctor. No—” she waves her hand. “I mean the therapist.”

They have sex very early in the show if I remember right. Harry, you fucking idiot. I check the time and bite my lip. “I’ve got to go. Work is calling.” Then I stand up and see her face drops. I don’t walk immediately though, just letting the disappointment build up a bit. “But, I’ll take your money and you must have the coffee ready in our first interview.”

She beams up and stands up so fast, so energetic. “Great. Half sugar, no milk?”

“Double sugar, no milk,” I say seriously with a dangling smile. This little reveal, I can let her have it, like a reward for her beauty, intelligence, and persistence. Maybe I’ll let her reopen my wound. After all, I’ve only a few days left here and my story won’t matter anymore.

She nods while her brow slightly raises, realizing my previous attempt to test her. Then she shoves her folder to me. “There’s a questionnaire below, please answer them before our meeting.”

“Homework?” I ask with a wide smile, a rare moment where I find real amusement. “And I got paid for doing them. Why do people complain about being an adult?”

She almost giggles at my play but keeps herself cool and professional. “3pm tomorrow, at the University of Social Sciences and Humanities, Thu Duc Campus. We’ll meet at lecture hall six. You can find the school layout right at the gate.”

“I’m extremely busy… so can I get your number? I’ll confirm again tonight.”

She blinks twice, considering my slick move or contemplating a polite refusal? “Email is fine.” Then she gives me her business card. She deliberately holds it when I’m about to take it. “I’ll ask you very private questions to support my thesis so you might feel like I’m dissecting your old wounds so be prepared, Harry.”

As long as it’s not about Brooke, I think. “I’m always prepared.” I take the card and wave it as I walk away. It has a phone number, perhaps her business one. That’s close enough. The seed in one pocket securing my future, Elise’s card in the other threatening to unearth my past. Perhaps my few days left in the country can leave me a single beautiful memory, like a rose amidst the thorns.

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Intro & Index